Weak though she was, she gave a wry smile. “What’s this—your rational explanation again?”
“No marm,” I says. “I just have a very strong feeling.”
I simply had to get her off this train of thought. Very off-hand, I says, “Did you ever go up to the attic, marm? Before you started to hear all the noises and everything?”
“Not really,” she says, eventually. “I can only think of—one occasion.”
That would have been when she put Noras box up there, I knew as much from
The Observations.
But the box wasn’t what concerned me. I began to move around the bed, needlessly tucking in the covers.
“Did you happen to look at the skylight, marm, when you were up there?”
“I don’t think so,” she says. (As this was the best possible response she could have give me, I felt a thrill of excitement.) “Why do you ask?
I took a deep breath. Here goes. “Was there never someone in this house marm, that did call you ”My Lady“?”
She gave a little gasp and her eyes widened. You would have thought I’d yanked up her smock for a peek at her parsley. She stared at me for a moment, her breath coming quick and shallow.
Then she says, “There was a girl, yes. A few months before you arrived.”
My heart was going like the hoofs of Hell. But I knew I had to continue.
“And—marm—might this girl not have wanted your help at some stage?” I says. “Could she not have been in the attic one day, for some reason, perhaps she was a little sad, I don’t know, and couldn’t she— might she not have wrote those words up there in the skylight, in an absent-minded way?”
Missus was staring straight ahead. No words came from her lips, but her eyes were like windows, I could see a dozen thoughts flit through the rooms of her mind.
“Is that not possible?” I says. “That this maid wrote those words
months
ago, but that we only just noticed them the other day, and
mistook
them for the words of a ghost?”
It wasn’t a certainty, perhaps it was even a long stretch—but it was just possible.
“But, you see,” says missus. “You don’t understand. This girl— actually is dead.”
“Oh dear,” says me. (What a performance! I was acting my arse off.) “I’m sorry to hear that, marm. What was her name?”
Missus licked her lips. “Nora,” she says, faintly. “Nora Hughes.”
“Well forgive me marm, this Nora Hughes might be dead
now,
but presumably she was alive when she was working for you.” I flashed her the ivories but she made no reply. “Don’t you see? She was here but a few months ago. She might easily have gone up to the attic without you knowing and wrote that silly message in the window.”
For a moment or two, missus continued to stare into space. Then she took a shuddering breath and let it out again. “Yes,” she says. “I had lot thought of it like that. But you might be right. It could have been written—before.”
I laughed. “There now, marm, you see? We have the explanation.
The message wasn’t left by anybody dead at all. It was done months ago, by a real live maid.“ Here, I paused a moment to give her time to fully absorb my suggestion. Then I says, lightly, ”It seems so obvious, marm, I almost wonder why we did not think of it at once.“
How had I expected her to react? I suppose I had imagined that she would be relieved, even pleased to learn that there was a rational explanation for everything. Nonetheless, at that moment, her face showed neither relief nor pleasure. In fact she seemed disappointed, I might even go so far as to say that she gave every appearance of being bereft.
“What’s the matter, marm?”
She gave a start, as though she had forgot I was there. And then she fixed me with an odd look I couldn’t quite fathom. Partly devious, as though she felt she had outwitted me in some way and at the same time distrustful, as though she suspected that I might try to outwit her in future. This was my impression for it only lasted a second or two and I might have been mistaken. Then she smiled and gave herself a shake.
“Nothing!” she says with a little laugh. “Aren’t you clever, Bessy, working all that out? I believe you may well have solved our little mystery. Isn’t that marvellous?”
I would happily have stayed on talking to her for donkeys years but she made it clear that I should leave, by telling me that she wanted to sleep and then turning on her side and so I was left to creep out the room and quietly close the door.
Back in the kitchen, I put my hand in my pocket and my fingers closed around my letter to missus. I took it out and looked at it. Only hours had passed since I had wrote it but it felt like days. Thank gob, none of the worst things that I had feared had come true. Missus was neither dead nor gone mad. She didn’t remember that I had punched her. And if we both stuck to the same story about what happened then master James would be none the wiser.
How silly I was to have worried so much. Indeed (I tellt myself). revealing the truth now would only do more harm than good. Missus was in a delicate state. She needed calm and quiet. Knowing that I had made a fool of her would only upset her and possibly make her ill again. Just when she was on the path to recovery. Really, when you thought about it, there was no reason to run away or to confess anything at all.
Anyway, for dear sake, where would I go?
What a relief I had not give her the letter already!
And just to make sure that she never learned what I’d done, I destroyed it. There was no fire lit yet in the kitchen so it took several matches and a lot of blowing, I think the paper must have been a bit damp. But I persevered, lighting match after match until eventually my confession was no more than a little heap of ashes in the grate.
13
A
Trip, a Tea Party and a Mysterious Object
It was that gloomy time of year so it was when each day seems too short, as though the sun has bare crept across the sill of the world before it has to shrink once more into the shadows. I burned extra candles by the bed to cheer missus and hunted for things to brighten the chamber and distract her from thoughts of ghosts. There was no flowers to be found outside but in spare moments I searched the hedgerows and collected sprigs of holly and rosehips and evergreen leaves these I wrought into little displays for the chimneypiece. Each night I invented a few riddles, I wrote them on paper and gave them to her with breakfast so that she had something to occupy her while I went about my work. I was careful to write up my journal and show it to her at the end of every day that she might check exactly what chores I had done and what had gone through my mind as I worked. (It is my belief that she was too weak to write up her
Observations
for I never once seen ink on her fingers in this period.) To pass time in the evenings, we played at cards. Most often she chose
Humbug
which I had taught her though I told her it was called
Doubles
as that seemed a more agreeable name. Sometimes I read to her from novels. Only excerpts that I thought she would find striking or amusing. And instead of sleeping in my own room, I elected to doze in the chair beside her bed, just in case she should want something or get sick in the night and be too weak to ring for me. In short I done everything I could to make life easier and more pleasant for her.
One morning, she wanted me to read her out the Bible, I opened it at random, Isaiah 24. It was all about the Lord making the earth waste and turning it upside down, curses desolation treachery and everybody being thrown into a pit. Yes that would do her good to hear. Not really! I decided to give her Christ feedeth the four thousand instead, because everybody likes a nice miracle, I was just trying to find the page when I glanced up to see her laying there with a fearful look on her face. I jumped up at once and knelt beside her.
“Whatever is the matter, marm?”
She took my hand and squeezed it.
“Oh Bessy,” she says. “I just have to get better. You must help me. Will you do that, Bessy? Will you help me to get well?”
More than anything I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. Yet I didn’t do it. I wanted to say, “I would do anything for you, marm, anything.” But I kept my potato trap shut. You see, I knew better now than to frighten her off by gushing or pestering her, she didn’t care for that kind of behaviour as I had discovered to my shame when I read her
Observations.
Perhaps I had allowed my feelings to run away with me. And being a kind person, missus tolerated me for a while, but she wouldn’t have welcomed it, some wee skullion clinging to her petticoats like a bad fart. In the end wasn’t she
quite right
to have put me at bay?
When you got to know her (like I had) you seen that she was delicate as a butterfly, and like a butterfly would flutter away if pursued. The only way to catch her was to sit stock still so that she might venture closer. And after a while (if you were lucky) she might even settle, quivering, on your thumb. No doubt about it, I’d have to keep myself in check and be careful not to frighten her away. No fool me! This time I would be more prudent.
So I didn’t embrace her or any of that tripe. All I says was, “Of course I’ll help you get better, marm.” And left it at that.
To master James we maintained the fiction that missus had got up too quick after writing a letter. The man was no gull but he seemed to swallow our story. Needless to say there were no more noises from the attic no strange occurrences about the house, not a bit of it. Missus gained strength with each day that passed until one morning she seemed so much better that I allowed her to get up. She sat in her chair for an hour staring out the window and later (since she appeared none the worse for the experience), we went for a short walk, arm in arm, around the vegetable garden.
The day was crisp and cold but I made sure that she was well wrapped up in her cloak and mittens. The garden was a shambles so it was. Apart from the cabbages and onions, the autumn vegetables were tramped down and withered or blackened by frost. The pea and bean nets had collapsed and the ground was covered with slimy brown leaves that had blown down from the woods. The few remaining cauliflowers had rotted where they grew. “Cauliflower soup,” I says to missus and feeble jest though this was it made her laugh. I could feel the heat of her hand through the mitten. Her nose and cheeks were pink from the cold and the breath rose from her in gusts, like steam. All around was death and devastation yet she seemed alive and for the first time I began to believe she was going to be all right. The relief of it washed through me like a swig of Godfreys.
Later I stole a few moments from preparing dinner and sought out master James in the study to let him know that—at last—it looked like his wife might be getting better. He had been standing behind his desk when I entered, thumbing through a small book and now he glanced up from its pages.
“That is good news,” he says. “If it is indeed the case.”
“Oh it is, sir. I think she’ll be right as rain in a week or so.”
The book in his hand snapped shut, he tossed it down on the desk between us, like a challenge. “In that case,” he says. “She will—in your opinion—be fully recovered in ten days time. By next Thursday”
“Well I couldn’t be so precise as to say
exactly
—”
“I’m afraid I need you to be precise, Bessy” He had spoke sharply but then he paused and stroked his whiskers and seemed to soften a little. “Perhaps I should explain. We have been invited to a
Soiree
next Thursday evening, in Edinburgh. A rather important function, hosted by our Reverends brother, Mr. Pollock. The fountain I am purchasing for Snatter will probably come from his foundry in Glasgow and I have some plans that I need to discuss with him. This would be the ideal opportunity. And he is very keen that my wife accompany me. I had it in mind to take her away for a few days, in any case, for a change of scene. It’s not good for her being shut away from the world. I suspect her isolation here has contributed to this—this collapse, whatever it is. So I intend to take her to town. And, while we are there, it would be—convenient—for us both to attend this
Soiree
on Thursday. Now, if I am not mistaken, you are suggesting that she will indeed be fully recovered by then.”
“Well, sir, I
think
she might but I don’t-”
“
Think
is not good enough, Bessy. I need you to
ensure
that she is well.”
The way he stared at you it made you want to look away, but I held my ground. “Sir, if missus is not recovered by next Thursday then might I suggest that she stays at home and you go to the important dinner yourself.”
He smiled smoothly. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple, Bessy. As my wife, she is invited and expected. Now I will be very busy for the next few days, and I want you to keep a close eye on her and make sure that she is well enough to accompany me. I hope you understand what I mean.”
I was not sure that I did and tellt him as much.
“I mean—let me put it plainly to you.” He planted his fists on the desk and leaned towards me. “She is to be kept calm and quiet and she must be discouraged from entertaining any notions about this house being haunted. It has upset her. You are not to let her talk about it and you are not to become involved in these—wild imaginings and— and—flights of fancy of hers. It will only make her worse.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to protest that this was
exactly
what I was trying to do but instead, I found myself leaping to her defence.
“She
has
heard noises, sir. And strange things
have
happened that cant be explained. If I were her, in her position, I would be thinking the same thing, sir.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you
have
been encouraging her to believe this nonsense.”
On the contrary, sir, I have been doing everything in my power to convince her otherwise.“
“Well then.” He sniffed. “Fresh air is what she needs. Take her out tomorrow.”
“But-”
He waved away my objections. “I have just spoken to her about it and she is agreed it would be a good idea,” he says. “Go to church, or Bathgate. Look in at shop windows. Amuse yourselves. Call in at the railway station and regulate your watches.”